A Chocolate Factory for Veruca
by T. Fowler
Summary: There was only one thing growing up that Veruca Salt didn't get. Now, as an adult, it's affecting her ability to get something else that she desperately desires. MATURE THEMES AND REFERENCES TO SEX. Also, very dark themes.


Veruca Salt had always gotten everything she wanted. It was a privilege of her birth, her father doting on her excessively and having the wealth to make her dreams come true, and her mother being a woman who only cared how many jewels she had and who was going to mix her next drink. Thus, Vercua was free to demand as much from her parents as she wanted with a guaranteed success rate.

There had only ever been one thing she'd been denied, and that was Willy Wonka's ultimate prize. Not that she cared, of course; it was obvious from the beginning that the contest had been rigged, and Mr. Wonka had much preferred that horrid little guttersnipe, Charlie, to anyone else. Vercua might as well not have even gone. Not that she cared; what on earth would she do with a stupid chocolate factory anyway? No. It wasn't that Vercua hadn't won or Mr. Wonka had refused to give her what she wanted; quite the contrary, Vercua had managed to get exactly what she wanted, and that was away from the rest of the children and that stupid, queer man.

Everything she'd ever wanted, Vercua had only had to ask for. Even as an adult, she got it. At the age eighteen, she'd gotten into the university of her choice. At age nineteen, she'd snagged a prominent and very wealthy young lord for a boyfriend. At twenty, it was the wedding of her dreams, the home that she'd always longed for, and the life of languorous indulgence that she'd always known she'd deserved. And all she ever had to do was ask.

Except, for one tiny thing. It simply didn't work to run to your father and said, "Daddy. I want to have an orgasm."

Nor did demanding one from one's husband work, either.

"You're so beautiful," Charles would murmur into her skin. "So perfect." His mouth was everywhere: on her breasts, inside her thighs, licking and nipping up her perfectly taut stomach. And his hands... they stroked and caressed, fondled and probed and Vercua...

Just lay there. Still and bored because no matter how much she enjoyed being flattered and how lovely Charles's body was, he simply couldn't bring her off. They'd been trying since they'd met, and even when Veruca was more active--and she wasn't anymore, because, after all, Charles always had an orgasm, so why should she have to do any work--it simply didn't happen for her.

At first, she was faithful. It wasn't that she felt particularly devoted to her husband, but it wouldn't do to start having an affair less than a year after they were married. But then, as her life of rest and relaxation wore on her, she got so bored. And Charles's executive assistant, Ryan, was so very pretty. It was easy enough to entice him into bed.

And yet, no orgasm. Not the first nor the fifteenth time, when she finally called a halt to the affair.

After that, it was more men, more sex, and more creativity in the bedroom with everyone, including her husband. But the sexual peak of pleasure remained elusive.

"Honestly," she finally snapped after Charles rolled his sweaty and flushed body off her, his chest heaving and penis limp and damp against his thigh. "You'd think you might put a little effort into satisfying me for one." Veruca pulled her silk robe back on and flipped her hair out over it. On the dressing table was her silver-backed brush; she picked it up and began brushing the knots from her hair that had formed as Charles had thrust into her, jerking her body over the sheets roughly.

Charles said something under his breath, rising from the bed.

Veruca turned. "What was that?" she asked.

"I said, 'I'm not the one who is the problem, you frigid bitch.'"

"How dare you!" Veruca stood up, eyes flaming. "How dare you call me that! I'm not the problem, Charles. It's you and your stupid fumbling, horrible panting. You wouldn't know how to make a woman come if..."

"I do quite well, thank you very much," he interrupted. "Certainly your dear friend Maria Lawrence has never had any complaints."

Veruca felt the blood drain from her face. "You've been... you've been cheating on me!"

"It's no more than you've been doing on me, my dear."

"I've never..."

"Ryan and I have had a few lively discussions about how impossible it is to please you, my love." Charles sneered. "You can't even come for another man. Any of your other men. It's not me, Veruca, it's you."

Tears pressed behind Veruca's eyes. "Get out," she said through clenched teeth. She picked up the clock from her beside and flung it at him. "Get out!" she screamed. She threw her brush.

Charles ducked the objects, laughing nastily all the while. "Very well. I'll go off, then. Find someone who can satisfy me better than you. Ta, love." With that final, mocking laughter, he turned and left.

How dare he? How dare he cheat on her and place the blame at her doorstep. She wasn't going to stand for that. She was Veruca Salt. Well, Veruca Basecombe, but no matter what her last name, she was still Daddy's little girl. And he would make everything better for her.

Tears gone, she went to her desk and picked up the phone, dialing her father's number.

"Hello?" he answered groggily, for it was quite late.

"Daddy," Veruca said regally, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I want a divorce."

Her father sprang into action and, not two days later, Veruca had a solicitor who was ready to do whatever she told him. She planned to rake her bastard of a husband over the coals until he came home one night and said, "Veruca. We will stay married. We will have a child in five years as we agreed. I will continue to support you in every manner and luxury. You may continue your infidelities and I mine, and we will live in separate rooms unless we need to have sex for procreation. But I will not allow my good named sullied. Understand?"

Veruca decided that was exactly what she wanted anyway. Freedom to do what she liked and freedom not to sleep with her bastard of a husband who couldn't pleasure her. She dismissed the solicitor and went on holiday in Greece until her bastard of a husband could have his belongings moved into the east wing.

One year later, Veruca still hadn't had an orgasm. She was beginning to get desperate because there was a chance--however slight--that Charles had been correct when he said that the fault lay with her and not her numerous sexual partners.

"What's wrong, sweet cake?" Trevor, her latest lover, asked her after their seemingly endless bought of sex. He spooned behind her and kissed the shoulder that was left bare by the sheet.

"I told you not to call me that," Veruca answered in irritation.

"Sorry," he replied, immediately contrite. He kissed her neck then moved up to suck on her earlobe.

She sighed. Men were all the same. As long as you gave them your body, they'd let you do whatever it was you wanted. "Nothing, darling." Veruca rolled onto her back and pulled him closer. Their lips touched first gently, then with more passion. "It's simply that I find that you are much like every lover I've ever had."

Trevor frowned. "You seemed happy enough while we were having sex."

"I was faking. Just as I always do."

"Interesting." Trevor sat up and took a pad of paper from the nearby table. "And what were you thinking while engaged?"

Veruca rolled her eyes. Bad enough he used that tone during her therapy sessions; now he was going to use it in the bedroom as well. Of course, she had been the one who'd suggested the real way to get to the root of the problem (which, of course, was not hers; she was simply complicated and needed to learn the language to guide men into leading her to orgasm) was to take their sessions to bed. Dr. Trevor Howard had taken some convincing--apparently it was against professional ethics to sleep with your patients--but Veruca always got what she wanted.

"I was thinking how much you smelled and how sticky and gross it all felt. And how silly you sounded grunting and how I could see your ass in the mirror over there shaking like pudding when you thrust into me."

Trevor looked at her for a long moment, his face perfectly blank. His Adam's apple worked a few times before he cleared his throat and turned his attention back to his notes. "You seem to have a preoccupation with stickiness and, um. Pudding. Anything sweet, really. It's come up quite a few times in our sessions, as has bad smells." He looked up at Veruca. "Why do you think that is?"

"I don't know," she sighed in annoyance. "Because men smell."

_He'd smelled like chocolate and mint._

Veruca blinked and sat up, holding the sheet to her breasts. Where had _that_ thought come from?

"What is it?"

"I don't know." She frowned. "I just suddenly thought of someone I hadn't thought of in a long time."

"Who?"

"No one important," Veruca answered vaguely, puzzling it over in her mind.

"It might be," Trevor insisted. "Did this man smell bad? Is that why you suddenly thought of him?"

"No, he didn't smell bad at all. In fact, he smelled quite nice."

Trevor scribbled furiously; it was, possibly, the first time he'd ever heard Veruca say something complimentary without expecting something in return. "Was he sticky or dirty in any way?"

She shook her head. "No. He was... obsessively clean. Pale, beautiful skin and ... gloves. Immaculate clothes." Veruca frowned. "I was the one who was sticky and dirty."

"Oh." Trevor put the notebook down and looked at her sadly. "Veruca, darling, did this man do something to you?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Did he molest you? Rape you?"

Veruca looked at him for a moment before she began laughing at the ridiculousness of the idea. "Willy Wonka _rape_ me?" She laughed harder, tears rising to her eyes. "Willy Wonka wouldn't even shake my hand when I visited his stupid factory all those years ago. He flinched when that horrid little gum chewing girl tried to hug him. He would never rape anyone, much less me."

"Willy Wonka?"

"Yes, I was one of the golden ticket winners all those years ago. Remember?"

"Ah, yes, I do. There was some huge scandal about that contest, wasn't there? A bunch of the children were hurt."

Veruca flipped her hair over her shoulder and got out of the bed, sheet draped around her. "Yes, well, I was one of them. I had Daddy find me that golden ticket so I could be one of the select few allowed through those gates. I knew I was going to win the grand prize because I wanted it and, instead, I was tossed down a bloody garbage shut by nut cracking squirrels." Her voice turned to ice as an anger unlike anything she'd experienced since she was ten years old.

"So. You didn't get what you wanted," Trevor said slowly. "You were humiliated by this man who not only didn't give you what you wanted, but literally treated you like trash."

"So?"

"So, this may be why you're unable to achieve orgasm. It's become your chocolate factory."

"That's just stupid." Veruca whirled around to face him. "So, what do I have to do? Go there and make him give me the chocolate factory?"

Trevor shrugged. "Or an apology."

Veruca snorted in disdain. "Apology." Then, an idea sprung in her mind. She smiled and straightened her shoulders. "Very well. Maybe you're right. Maybe that is what I need to do. I'll go to that stupid little man and force him to give me an apology."

The plan percolated in Veruca's brain as she dressed, not listening to Trevor natter on about going about this carefully and what a breakthrough it was and how when she came back, she'd probably orgasm at the drop of a hat. She didn't care anymore what he said; Veruca was off to get her chocolate factory.


End file.
